


We Travel Without Seatbelts On

by significantowl



Category: Daredevil (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, Fix-It, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Post-Season/Series 02, Sexy Places to Hide, Travel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-15
Updated: 2017-08-15
Packaged: 2018-12-15 18:28:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,986
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11811753
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/significantowl/pseuds/significantowl
Summary: Matt and Elektra, a world away from New York.The last time he came at Elektra’s bidding was in the cabin of a private plane, somewhere high over the Atlantic. Elektra spoiled him - she anchored him - the weight of her hand and the heat of her mouth something for him to cling to while his roots were ripped out, while his city fell further and further away.(aka: Matt and Elektra DoIt inEurope)





	We Travel Without Seatbelts On

**Author's Note:**

> So many thanks to Elliceluella ❤

Their balcony overlooks the Mediterranean, and beneath the call of Elektra’s heartbeat lies the swelling song of the sea.

It’s late enough that most of Valletta is asleep, shifting and sighing beneath its covers. Wearing only a slip, Elektra stands with her back to the iron railing, silk hiked up to her waist. Matt kneels before her completely bare because she likes him that way. His skin gleams in the moonlight, she says. He shines.

Her right leg is hooked over his shoulder. His hands are grasping her ass. His mouth is between her legs, tongue moving in long, slow sweeps, and the sea salt that had filled his nose and coated his lips and tongue since they came to this island is gone now, lost to Elektra.

Matt’s hard, even though his mind knows better from the brisk way she stripped him, from the way she didn’t tip his head back for a kiss after she guided him to his knees. He won’t call it a failure, though, and he won’t call it indulgence - hasn’t he always performed his best when dancing on the edge, poised for a fall?

Elektra’s fingers are skating over the nape of his neck, prickling the short hairs there. Each is a point of warmth, a contrast to the coolness of the sea breeze; each stroke of her hand matches the pulse of her blood in his ears and beneath his tongue, and Matt’s falls in line, throbbing hopelessly between his legs.

His mind is strong, and it’s saying no, no, no. One simple _yes_ and his fist would be around his dick - he’d shoot off without even dragging it up, just from the weight of his grip. It wouldn’t take a single stroke.

It won’t happen. Matt’s body is his when it isn’t Elektra’s, and Elektra’s when it isn’t his.

The last time he came at Elektra’s bidding was in the cabin of a private plane, somewhere high over the Atlantic, where all he could hear of the world outside was the wind, howling as the metal of the jet sliced it through. Elektra spoiled him - she _anchored_ him - the weight of her hand and the heat of her mouth something for him to cling to while his roots were ripped out, while his city fell further and further away.

Tonight Elektra comes on his tongue, hips jerking as she pulses around him, and Matt grasps her tighter, holding her through it. After a moment, she runs her fingers beneath his jaw - _enough_ \- and moves behind him, drawing him back against her so that they’re sitting with his back to her chest, her chin a pleasant weight on his shoulder, just as her leg had been.

The silk of her slip is cool against his back, and her bare thighs press warm alongside his own. Elektra’s hands curl over his knees, and Matt’s dick lies heavy and aching along his leg. In the long minutes of quiet that follow, Matt gives himself over to the rise and fall of Elektra’s chest, matching her inhale for inhale, exhale for exhale.

“We lived in Valletta when I was sixteen,” is what Elektra says when she finally speaks. Her words are flavored by salt and punctuated by the slap of waves, and Matt wonders where exactly the ambassadorial residence might be - if she can see it from where they sit, jutting out somewhere high and lonely over the sea. 

+

Matt bruised his knuckles on their first night in London, in a narrow lane near the Royal Opera House. The crisp, precise fit of the tuxedo he’d been wearing had hampered his swing only fractionally, and it had been good to feel the pull of the fabric over his arm as he threw the punch; good to remember how to work with whatever the moment gave him.

Elektra’s dress ripped at the seam, the embossed silk a casualty of the roundhouse kick she landed on the side of the would-be mugger’s head. “Best introduction to Europe you could’ve given me,” Matt said, shaking out his fingers, and Elektra laughed and prodded the asshole in the stomach. It was nice, a little extra gift, his pained grunt of air.

Back at the Georgian townhouse - where the tuxedo had been waiting in the wardrobe when they’d first arrived, and crumbly cheeses, fresh-baked breads, and well-chilled wines would keep them from going hungry in the night - they shared a clawfoot tub and a bar of soft, milky-sweet soap before falling into a bed that smelled faintly of lavender. 

The sheets were cool. Elektra burned, heat soaking into his skin, warming Matt down to his bones.

With his arms circling her waist, Matt’s hands met over her stomach. He pressed each bruised knuckle in succession with the pads of his fingers, one after the other after the other, crafting a little melody of pain.

It kept him awake, but not all the way until morning. Aches made for familiar lullabies.

But sleep wasn’t such a bad thing, not with Elektra pressed snug to his chest. It wasn't the torture it had been on the plane. He'd woken up then with his head rolling from side to side, salt on his lips, tears leaking from the corners of his eyes - Foggy with a wound gaping in his shoulder, Karen bound and jailed, Elektra dying from Nobu’s blade before a gunshot from afar could prove her salvation - memories made nightmare made truth.

Who exactly had Matt saved, in the end?

+

Shouldn’t a plant know when it’s grown rootbound?

+

Elektra claims to have always been bored by Venice. After night falls, Matt takes that challenge and runs with it.

He never truly imagined a place like this, bursting with the blood of city life, but without cars, or trucks, or buses. Matt's standing in the center of thousands of lives and all the familiar notes of joy and anger and sorrow rise up to meet him, but without the bass line rumble of the streets - the growl of engines, the low, persistent grind of rubber on asphalt - the tune is an alien one, entirely new.

The sea is the city’s beating heart, the conductor setting the common time: _high tide low tide, high tide low tide._ Tonight the water’s rolling in, but the wind off the lagoon is gentle, whispering over the rooftops and lifting long strands of Elektra's hair in an artless dance. Matt reaches out, feeling air flow through his fingers and tendrils brush against his skin. 

It's time they flew.

Like everything else in Venice, distance is a function of water: a canal is as wide as the rippling splash of waves against the foundations of buildings on either side, echoing up to Matt's ears. His grappling line finds a high balcony, and they're off, running, running, running -

Venice is a maze, a mystery, its twists and turns a world away from New York’s concrete grid. It’s adrenaline burning through his veins and Elektra's heart beating fast in her chest. It consumes Matt's concentration, and pays him back in the rush of his blood and Elektra's wild laugh. Both sing like joy. 

After they come to a breathless landing on their own balcony, and their dark pants and shirts are scattered on the sofa (Matt _assumes_ Elektra’s are dark, but God only knows), she brushes her fingers over his temple and asks, “How many times did you think about New York?”

“I didn't.”

She laughs. She sounds delighted. “Matthew. Hasn't anyone ever told you there are consequences for lying?”

He laughs, too. “Well. You’d know.”

In the suite’s oversized shower, Elektra washes his hair, fingertips scratching gently over his scalp as he bends his head back, making it easier for her to reach. Water beats down on his neck and shoulders in a steady, regular flow, while outside the lagoon laps against the western wall of the building, sending it shifting and swaying with microtremors only he can feel.

The rhythms are pleasant: her hands, the water. He hums when Elektra's hands fall away, marking the loss, and she pushes in front of him to claim the spray for herself. With his own hands loosely clasping her waist, Matt waits, and sways, and sways.

Later, in the bedroom - “Arms up,” Elektra says, when Matt's lying back on the sheets, towel gaping around his waist. The brass headboard is cool and solid, and Matt curls his fingers around the metal slowly, his grip nice and strong.

He's truly anchored when she straddles his knees; between her weight and his will, centered in his hands, he's held firm. Elektra begins with kisses, scattering them just above the towel, wending her way from hip to hip. She’s wearing a towel, too, tucked snug over her breasts, and the thick weave of it rasps against an exposed sliver of his inner thigh. The harshness of cotton makes the softness of Elektra’s lips all the more enticing.

She notices when his weight shifts, when he bucks ever so slightly towards her mouth. 

Elektra changes course. Matt would expect nothing less. She begins working her way up his right thigh, fingertips sketching designs that please her, his skin prickling at the pressure of her touch and every light pinprick tug against the slowly-drying hairs on his leg.

His left thigh is the lucky one. It gets her lips.

Matt’s knuckles tighten on the bed rail. His breath is rasping in his chest; Elektra’s skims softly over his skin. She works her way all the way up to the very base of his balls, dropping the lightest of kisses there before drawing back. The mattress dips as she leans on her elbow, propping her chin on her palm.

“Now what,” she says slowly, appraisingly, “am I meant to do with this?”

_This_ is his dick, of course, curving up high over his stomach through the gap in the towel, hard, hard, hard. 

It might be a trap, and it might not - she might give him exactly what he asks for, or she might give him anything but - Matt can't always tell, and that's part of what makes her, makes _them_ , fun. But tonight none of that passes through his mind; he breathes out and says, “Nothing. Nothing is fine.”

Elektra runs a finger lightly along the underside of his shaft, stopping just short of the head. His dick lifts, twitching. “Oh, so it's about penance,” she says, unimpressed. “And here I was just trying to show a boy a good time.”

“Now sweetheart, didn’t you say there were consequences for lying,” Matt says, although he doesn't actually believe Elektra is. He gave her what she wanted out on those rooftops, gave her Venice in a whole new way, and there are times when Elektra is scrupulously fair.   
“If consequences are what you want,” she says, and swings off Matt, curling next to him with her head on his chest, body snug against his side. She circles his dick with her fist, and gives it one strong stroke. 

Elektra lets him go. Matt’s back bows, and he clutches the bed rail tight. He doesn’t come. 

Time is a function of water, too. Elektra relaxes into sleep, her heart beating steady and slow against him, but Matt lies awake with his arms above his head long enough to hear the turning of the tide. To feel the sea drag against the city walls, pulling at the foundations, breaking them apart by tiny, inexorable degrees.

+

He came in his sleep in Paris, waking up with his dick jerking against the mattress, his mouth open against the pillow. He’d had no way of knowing how long Elektra had been awake, watching him twist in the sheets, but she’d certainly been awake then; she’d nudged his shoulder to roll him onto his side, then drew a finger over his sticky, softening cock.

Matt’s breath caught in his chest. His heart was still racing. Elektra shifted onto her back, and worked her fingers between her legs.

She touched herself as if she had all the time in the world, fingers dragging slow and easy, over and around and inside. Matt found himself listening for _inside_ ; for the slickness that graced her fingertips, for the throb of her pulse down low.

He stayed on his side, just as she'd put him, head tipped toward her, basking in the heat of her blood as it rose from her skin. The thud of her heartbeat outpaced the glide of her fingers, still unhurried. Elektra moved like a reminder to take pleasure in a journey. To let the destination take care of itself.

Cathedral bells rang the hour, and Matt knew that the sun must be rising, and light spilling in through the window. He was hard again, his dick brushing Elektra’s hip; long tremors rolled down his spine as his whole body waited for the moment she would take herself over the edge.

“You can kiss my breasts,” she said, “it’s more than you let me do,” and Matt rolled close at once and knelt between her thighs, kissing, licking, drinking in the taste of her skin. When Elektra’s back arched and her whole body shuddered, he rocked back on his heels, dick aching to join her, fingers digging into the sheets.

The journey, not the destination. Matt gave himself over to it that morning in Paris, there on his knees.

+

Didn't some plants thrive without any soil at all?

+

Elektra has history in Santorini, just as she had in Valletta. That much is clear to Matt from the start, not simply due to the confident way she moves through the twisting, sun-drenched alleyways carved into the volcanic cliffs above the sea, but even more so, from the reverse - those moments when she hesitates, a slight hitch in her step, as she rounds a corner and finds that what lies beyond is not the same as what she remembers.

She’s not talking about it yet.

In a month's time the place will be overrun with tourists, Elektra tells him, a disparaging curl to her voice, but for now they have much of the village to themselves. Even though it's early spring, the day is a warm one. As they walk from the market back to their villa, Matt relishes the moments when they pass beneath the branches of olive trees and cool fingers of shade dance over his skin.

They eat lunch in the garden: roast chicken crusted with spices, curried chickpeas, and sparkling water with freshly-squeezed lime, all courtesy of vendors at the marketplace. There’s some shade here, too, thanks to the garden’s high walls, but Elektra still wears a wide-brimmed hat to keep the sun from her eyes. When it threatens to blow away in a sudden gust of wind, Matt catches it neatly, and smoothes down her hair with his palms before resettling it on her crown.

“If it flies off over the cliff, you’ll be buying a new hat,” Matt tells her, but Elektra just laughs and says, “As much as you like to show off? We’ll see.”

Whatever he and Elektra are doing here - whatever they’ve _been_ doing as they’ve criss-crossed Europe - it isn’t running. It isn’t hiding. Those were futile, desperate, glittering dreams from the start. The Hand wants Matt dead, and it _wants_ Elektra. 

It’s tried; it’s failed; it will have learned. It will adapt.

Matt hasn’t seen a fight since London. After lunch, he asks Elektra to give him one.

She likes landing the first blow, and she likes doing it from a distance. She gets Matt with a roundhouse to the back of the leg, but he shifts his weight to his other foot just in time to hold his ground, then pushes in and tags her shoulder. Elektra laughs and dives into a series of jabs; Matt blocks all but the last, thrown at an angle as she dances away. 

He grins, and launches himself towards her pounding heart.

Every parried blow frustrates Elektra, and as the fight progresses she gets fiercer. Faster. Grass prickles beneath Matt’s bare feet, sunshine warms his face, and the sounds of harsh breathing and landed kicks and punches ring against the garden’s plastered walls. Elektra doesn’t fight as if she’s training or preparing for something to come, but like she’s telling the story of what her body can do. 

Trying to anticipate her is the challenge at hand, and it’s exactly what Matt needs. They end the first round with his cheek pressed into the grass, Elektra straddling his hips, twisting his right arm up behind him; the second with her pinned to the ground, his arm across her throat.

“Feeling better now?” Elektra’s laughing up at him, still catching her breath, and when Matt smiles and says, “Yeah, little bit,” she rubs her thumb over his cheek. But the moment he rolls onto his back on the grass beside her, she sits up, tucking her knees beneath her.

“I was never meant to hit a man in Santorini,” Elektra says. “But now I think I like it here more than ever.” She’s looking out across the garden, Matt thinks, down towards the sea. “Everywhere else, everywhere... before, it was the only way to survive. Then suddenly I was here, and the rules were different. I used to wear grown men’s blood in my hair and beneath my fingernails. Here I wore chiffon and pearls.”

Her voice shifts; she’s facing him again. “I’m sorry. There are far worse ways for a life to change, of course I know that, of course _you_ know that…”

“But you were a child,” Matt says, “and you didn't want your life to change.”

Elektra shrugs a shoulder. Matt doesn't echo the gesture, but he feels every inch of it. In his flesh, in his blood, in his bones.

“Let's go out.” Elektra drops a kiss on his chin, his forehead, and a last, lingering one on his mouth. “We’re in the islands. It’s time we got on the water.”

Reaching the harbor means winding down a staircase cut into the side of the cliff. Wind whistles in Matt’s ears, and even though he knows there are no waiting rooftops and nowhere to land other than the water far below, a wild part of his brain wants to _try it_ , to dive off the rock and into the sharp, clean air. Just for the feeling.

Down on the docks, Matt’s nose fills with the heavier, oilier odor of fish. Elektra speaks to a man at the harbor office in rapid Greek; from the tone of the conversation, Matt suspects the man’s trying to push his services as a captain on her along with the hire of a boat. Gestures are made in Matt’s direction, insinuating - Matt assumes - that he’s at best useless and at worst a liability, and he waits with a bland smile pasted on his face for Elektra to get her way.

It's not until Matt follows Elektra onto the sailboat that's been begrudgingly unmoored for them that he says, “You, ah, do know what you’re doing, right?”

“Matthew. I’m offended.”

“Sure you are, sweetie. I just feel like the water’s probably a little cold for any…” he twirls a hand, “unexpected swimming.”

“By all means, take the helm, sailor.” She’s laughing at him.

He grins. “I'll wait until you show me how it's done.”

It's a fairly small craft, but designed with an eye for luxury and comfort. After pointedly tossing a life vest to Elektra, Matt slips into his own and settles onto a cushioned bench seat while she busies herself with the rigging. She uses a small inboard motor to take them away from the dock, the boat’s hull rising and falling rhythmically as they cut across the harbor’s shallow waves. 

Wind streams against Matt's face, and he pockets his glasses and closes his eyes. It feels as if the two of them are leaving the world behind, and when Elektra cuts the motor and raises the sail, that feeling increases tenfold. Just his heartbeat, and hers. The strong wings of a bird, soaring above. The lap of the waves. The billowing of the sail. 

Only him. Only Elektra. No one else singing crying laughing talking living a life - 

“Your face, Matthew,” Elektra says.

“What about it?”

Her hair whips into her mouth; Matt hears her lift her hand and brush it back before she says, “I've never seen you look quite like that.”

“Is that a good thing?”

She doesn’t answer. Matt supposes there’s no simple _yes_ or _no_. He feels oddly stretched, suspended in a place between disquiet and joy.

They drop anchor in the sheltered cove of an island across the bay. It had quickly become clear that Elektra did indeed know her way around a sailboat; had probably learned in these very waters. At one point, after they were well underway, she'd passed the line to Matt. Taking hold of that rope had meant feeling the breadth of the sail in the palm of his hand, and put the power to ride the wind between his fingers. He loved it at once, instinctive, exhilarating. A whole new kind of flying.

“No one lives here,” Elektra says, as they rock gently in the shallow waters. “It’s just a hunk of rock.” And Matt's senses confirm it: craggy peaks tower on three sides, the legacy of a long-ago lava flow, and only seabirds call the cliffs home.

“That almost sounds like a challenge.” Idly, Matt reaches over the side to skim his fingers over the water. He was right - it's pretty cold. “You want a house up there? Perched right up on top?”

“No.” Elektra swings a leg across his hips and settles in his lap. “This perch suits me much better,” she says, and waits with her mouth poised inches from his for him to surge up for a kiss. 

Elektra's lips are laced with salt, and Matt captures the lower one, tugging on it lightly, tasting. That draws a pleased sound from her, so he bites down gently, and smiles when she gasps.

After that, she turns the tables. Elektra slides her fingers into his hair, pinning him in place, then peppers his cheeks and lips with tiny kisses until Matt’s panting, lips parted, desperately waiting for a full, deep kiss. For the weight of her tongue. 

Pulling back, Elektra lifts Matt’s hand - he’d been clutching her waist - and places it on the buckle of her life vest. “Just how dedicated to boating safety are you?”

Matt breathes out a laugh, fidgeting with the clasp. “We’re anchored, that makes it okay, right?”

She shrugs. “Works for me.”

With their life vests out of the way, Matt slides his hands under Elektra's ass and pulls her flush against him. She feels good there, just as she always has, and he sucks in a breath at the sudden pressure against his dick. Elektra rocks forward, making everything that much more intense, and scatters kisses along his jaw.

He’s digging his fingers into her waist again when she leans back, half laughing, and says, “You carrying a condom in those trousers, Matthew?”

“Should - should be. Yeah. In my wallet.”

“Good to know,” Elektra says, moving down his neck, dropping more of those tiny, searing kisses along the way.

Matt's blood is pounding low, and hard. He tips his head back, sighing when Elektra’s soft lips dip into the hollow of his throat.

_Condom_ says coming inside her. The way she's teasing his neck says _if he lasts._

He does love a challenge.

Letting out a slow breath, Matt spreads his focus to the world around them. The sun on his face, the gentle breeze winding through the cove, the birds far, far overhead, chattering in their rocky nests. Breathing in, breathing out, he forces his lungs to set a deliberate pace, and wills his hands to follow: they skim up Elektra's back, settle heavy at the knob of her spine for a long moment, then slip back down to curl over her ribs. 

His thumbs skate along the low curve of her breasts through her t-shirt, and Elektra presses forward, into his hands. Matt tries not to imagine her warm, soft skin, the way it would feel against his if they were both naked. His dick throbs anyway. 

Her heartbeat dances wickedly. Before Matt knows it, he’s lying on his back in the belly of the boat on cushions Elektra’s pulled off the bench seats. His shirt’s been thrown aside, and Elektra’s sitting on his legs, patting the pockets of his pants.

“Wallet’s, ah. Um. Wallet’s in the back,” Matt says. 

“That makes sense,” Elektra replies agreeably, continuing to feel up his thighs, right at the edge of his groin. She’s letting the fabric of his pants and boxers do her dirty work; with every movement of her hands there’s another pull, another shift, another slight change in pressure against his swelling dick. 

“Trust but verify, huh,” Matt gets out. He works a hand into his back pocket and tosses his wallet to Elektra, who plucks out a condom and turns her attention to his zipper. That comes down inch by torturous inch. 

When he's completely naked, and Elektra has shed all but her underwear, she takes his right hand and curls it delicately around his dick.

“Go on, do it.” She taps his knuckles. “Twice.”

Matt’s careful: he keeps his fingers loose, and when he drags them along his length, he stops well short of the head. Even so, he gasps, lost for a second in the pure desperate rush of giving himself a taste of what he needs.

Again.

He's quicker about it the second time. Doesn't let anticipation build in his body, doesn't let himself _think_. Just a simple jerk of his hand, up then down, ending with his fingers held loose down at the base.

“On second thought... let’s see another,” Elektra says, and Matt's dick twitches just as sure as if she'd touched him. It’s not easy, but he takes it slower this time, so she can have a show, if that's what she wants. She can have the full picture: his fist dragging up his dick, the muscles flexing in his arm, his dick pulsing as it fattens. The flush he can feel spreading on his chest. The way his lips part, because he can’t keep himself from gasping for air once again. 

When it's over, he's leaking, and he bites his lip as she rolls the condom down.

He doesn’t wait for her next move. Matt palms Elektra’s back, bringing her close, and kisses the soft swell of her breasts. Her breath catches, and she laughs, soft and low, and Matt knows she’s decided it’s a delaying tactic on his part, an attempt at defense through offense; she's not entirely wrong, but she’s not entirely right, either, and he keeps it up, delighting in the silkiness of her skin for as long as he can. Elektra draws back and pulls off her panties, then settles warmly over his hips.

“No thank you,” she says, when Matt tries to slip a hand between her legs. She uses his dick to get herself good and ready, rocking slowly against his shaft, growing slick and breathless before working the tip inside.

Just that: just the tip. Elektra holds him there, and bends to kiss him fiercely. The disconnect threatens to tear Matt in two; his mouth is wild, frenzied, artless; his hips are locked in place, desperately careful not to move. When she sinks down to take him in an inch further, a sob catches in his throat.

“Now there's a face I know,” Elektra whispers.

“Yeah?”

“Matthew Michael Murdock, holding on.” Her voice shakes slightly. She traces a line from his forehead, to his cheek, to his mouth. “Just to prove that he can.”

She’s not just talking about this moment, now; she’s not just talking about sex. Matt palms the nape of Elektra’s neck, bringing her closer, and presses a kiss to her forehead. “Because I want to,” he corrects, even though they both know there’s room for more than one truth. 

“Well.” She kisses his nose, then the corner of his mouth. “If it’s what you want.”

Elektra rides him slowly, the rhythm of her body a counterpoint to the rhythm of the sea rolling below. Up, down. Rise, fall. Whenever Matt gets too close, she pulls off entirely, rests her palms on his chest, and waits; she always, always knows when he’s getting too close.

Time stretches and swells, boundless as the sea. _You’re not done yet,_ she whispers over and over, a chant that becomes more and more ragged the harder her blood pounds. _You're not done, as he throbs inside her. _You're not done, as he thrashes, head rolling from side to side. _You’re not done, you’re not done, you’re still fighting -___

__Matt fumbles a hand between them, and this time, Elektra doesn’t tell him no. He rubs circles with his thumb, trying desperately to match her careful pace, but it’s a lost cause from the start. Her whole body tightens, and the word _please_ spills from Matt’s throat, cracked and splintered; when she shudders, tears pool at the corners of his eyes, and he jerks and shakes. He's with her. He's with her every step of the way._ _

__When their heartbeats have sweetened and slowed, and they’re lying side by side, Matt twines their legs together, warm and close. Waves rock beneath them, little highs, little lows. Above all, water is honest: the world shifts._ _

__It always has. It always will._ _

__Taking Elektra’s hand, Matt draws it down snug between their chests, over their beating hearts. He laces their fingers together, one by one by one, and smiles when Elektra squeezes back, tight and strong._ _

__It’s what roots do. Weave and tighten, strengthen and grow._ _

**Author's Note:**

> For the "like a champ" square on my Daredevil Bingo card. (I know, you kinda have to squint, but from the moment I got the card that square said Matt/Elektra orgasm denial to me, so... *flail hands*)
> 
> Title from the Decemberists' "Here I Dreamt I Was an Architect" ( _and we are vagabonds/we travel without seatbelts on/we live this close to death_ )
> 
> Say hi at [tumblr!](http://significantowl.tumblr.com)


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